A/N:You all begged, and the response was really more than I had expected, so here it is, but that's it. No more. I have the last chapters of Histories to work on.

Neal sat on the bed in the Burkes' spare room, still and unmoving. The table lamp let a soft glow into the room, and the window was open a little, enough for a breeze to waft its way in, bringing the sounds of the city with it. Dinner had been exemplary, considering that it was nearing midnight when El had been cooking for them, and he had told her as much.

Now he sat, the Burkes asleep in the room across the hall, thinking. So many thoughts. What would happen to him now? What about Kramer? What about the actual FBI? What would happen to Peter? He knew that more than once he had nearly pushed Peter into an early retirement with his less than legal antics, but every time Peter, Jones, Diana, they all had pretended like it wasn't as bad as it was.

Neal knew the truth.

If he slipped up one more time ( and this time might be that time) Peter would take the fall, and he would go back to prison. Somewhere along the line, Neal found, he had suddenly become more concerned with Peter's job security than his probable incarceration. What would happen to El if there was an investigation, if Peter was fired? What about Peter? He couldn't do that to him, after everything that Peter had done for him.

Everything I touch dies. He thought to himself, suddenly feeling very morbid and melancholic. What a curse for an artist. And that was the truth. Neal had always thought of himself as being an artist. He had never considered the cons to be his profession, but merely his way of getting the money to paint and sculpt and create his way through life.

For all his creations, and the life that he brought to art (whether legally his or not) somehow, everything that he touched was spoiled, and everyone he cared about got hurt. He couldn't deny it, and it came with the life that he led…chose to lead.

But it was addicting, the thrill, the rush, and he wanted so badly to help Peter, but…

He couldn't escape the choices that he had made.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply before standing sharply, and with a grace that came so naturally to him, walked about the room, grabbing his few things and pulling on the clothes that Peter had given him to use.

He opened the window a little wider, and slipped out.

Peter awoke to the smell of bacon, wafting up to him from downstairs. He rolled over, and bumped into his wife with a surprise. He slowly rolled over again, and swung his legs over the edge, pulling on a t-shirt as he walked down the steps, El stirring behind him.

When he was in view of the kitchen, he saw Neal, in a t-shirt and jeans (his he noted, from the pile of things that didn't fit anymore which El had provided for their friend), cooking.

"What smells so good?" He asked groggily.

"Omelets, Peter, Omelets with everything in them. A hearty breakfast for the hard working FBI agent and his lovely wife," the younger man turned to Peter, a wide gleaming smile on his face.

"Sounds good, but I smelt bacon," he groused.

"You're going to have to wait. Go wake up Elizabeth while I finish up here,"

"Why are you doing this?" Peter asked, shaking his head, a small half smile forming. Neal turned and faced him, as if he was about to say something, but he stopped, and shooed Peter away.

When he and El came back down the stairs ten minutes later, the silverware was laid out, and the plates waiting, still steaming omelets resting on them, and Peter's place had its own side of bacon.

"Breakfast is served," the darkhaired man stated cheerily, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Something's up with him El," Peter squinted, thinking, as he sat, popping a strip of bacon into his mouth and crunching on it. "Something isn't right,"

"Well I'm going to go help him with the rest of the things in the kitchen, I'll be right out, you enjoy your bacon and coffee," and El slipped away through the door.

Neal was leaning against the counter, everything was already cleared away, and spotless.

"You're a fast worker!" she smiled at him, but he didn't respond. "Is everything alright, Neal?"He looked up at her, his eyes dark.

"I nearly ran last night. I was out the window and halfway down the block before I came back. I don't want Peter to feel the repercussions of my actions, El. I can't stand the thought of him being reprimanded by the bureau again because of me, and I know it's bad this time," He sighed, and hung his head. El came up alongside him, pulling him into a hug, stroking his hair, but he remained stock still, unmoving.

"Peter gave you the signal to run. You did as he asked. I'm glad you didn't run, because we just went through all that trouble to get you back. Think about how Peter would have felt. You didn't do anything wrong. Any repercussions are a result of his own actions. Kramer was either going to use you, or put you back in jail. We couldn't let that happen,"

"I'm never going to let Kramer get to you, Neal," the con looked up, still uncomfortable at the proximity, in surprise. Peter put a hand on his shoulder, trying to pour all the strength and understanding into the touch. He focused his gaze on Neal's. "This is your home. Here with us. New York is your home, and we are your family, and family looks out for one another,"

"Thank you Peter, Elizabeth, thank you, really. But what are we going to about it? Just because you got me out of there, doesn't mean we're out of the woods yet. The Bureau doesn't even know that I'm here,"

Peter smiled grimly. "We'll find a way, Neal, we'll find a way,"